Free The Beautiful Ones (Arabesque) by Adrianne Byrd

problem.”
His face darkened. “There most certainly is.”
“How do you know her husband isn’t completely okay with their relationship?”
“No man is okay with his wife sleeping around. Trust me.”
“I’ve heard of open marriages.”
“Open marriages were created for men to sleep around. Women turn a blind eye because the husband is a damn good provider. Unless it’s a mênage à trois, men don’t share.”
“What?”
Jonas quickly tossed up his hands. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Excuse me?”
Jonas and Ophelia jumped, and then faced Solomon.
“You two might want to lower your voices. We can sort of hear you,” he informed them.
Horrified, Ophelia gasped. “Oh, Sol. We didn’t mean—”
“Forget it. Just try to lower your voices.” He turned with a smirk, but before he disappeared from sight, he turned again and met Jonas’s stare. “And you don’t have to worry about your girl around me—the mênage à trois isn’t my thing—anymore.”
Jonas glanced at Ophelia.
“He’s kidding.” Ophelia suppressed a grin. Her gaze lowered to watch Solomon’s confident walk as he strolled back to the living room. An old sports injury caused his slight limp. She doubted anyone truly noticed, but she did. In fact, she remembered just about every story behind every scar, nick, or broken bone.
Solomon always had great stories—and she wondered what the real one was between him and Selma.
“Honey?”
“Huh? What?” She glanced at her fiancé and was stunned by the intensity of his stare. “What were you saying, sweetie?”
His shoulders slumped. “Nothing.”
She wasn’t buying it. She apparently had done something wrong. “Jonas—”
“We’d better get back in there,” he said, offering his arm.
She abandoned her speech. What was the use? The night was a disaster. The whole purpose in inviting Solomon to dinner was to get two of the most important men in her life to at least tolerate one another.
Ophelia sighed, looped her arm through Jonas’s, and brushed a kiss against his stiff lips.
Nothing.
No magic, no sparks, and definitely no butterflies.
When she pulled back, she beamed her best smile. It was becoming easier to hide her disappointment. And why not? It was such a small issue…or more like some crazy childhood fantasy about knights in shining armor, glass slippers, and bellies filled with butterflies. None of that stuff really happened. Well, it had happened once—twice—but that was long ago.
Arm in arm, Jonas led Ophelia back to the living room where everyone danced on eggshells. Ophelia tried her best not to like Selma, but the task was impossible. She was funny, smart, and kind. It was just this small issue of her being married with children that was throwing things off-kilter.
She cringed each time Solomon showed any type of affection toward Selma, and Ophelia hated how comfortable the two were around each other.
Dinner was finally served, not a moment too soon as far as Ophelia was concerned. She had already downed three drinks and was getting looser by the second.
“So where are you two going for your honeymoon?” Selma asked, once everyone had settled into the seats.
“We haven’t really decided on a place,” Jonas answered. “I’m a little partial to Mexico.”
Ophelia and Solomon gazes crashed seconds before laughter filled the room.
Jonas and Selma’s brows furrowed in curiosity.
“Sounds like we’re missing something,” Selma said.
“Let’s just say that we have some pretty questionable memories about Mexico.” Ophelia laughed.
“Questionable, hell,” Solomon barked. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. You’re the one who got trashed and thought you were a mermaid.”
Another squeal of laughter peeled from Ophelia. “Oh, Lord.”
Jonas’s congenial smile slowly lowered to a thin, flat line. “Well, I can’t wait to hear this one.”
“No, no.” Ophelia held up her hand. “Please, Sol. Don’t say a word,” she begged